


Inhibitions

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Justin’s looking at an empty bottle of rum; he doesn’t often drink it himself, but he’s fairly certain there were multiple inches of liquid left in it when he left this morning, to say nothing of the straggling row of empty bottles on the coffee table." Giriko gets drunk and Justin gains some insight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhibitions

The apartment is eerily quiet when Justin gets the front door open. After leaving Giriko to amuse himself for nearly twelve hours, the absence of policemen and noise complaints is a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, but that doesn’t mean the chainsaw hasn’t silently devastated the interior of the apartment. At a glance everything appears to be in order, though, which is something of a surprise, enough that Justin has the sudden chilling fear that maybe Giriko’s not here at  _all_ , maybe he let himself out in spite of the strict orders the priest gave to the contrary. It’s not like the thought of disobedience has ever stopped Giriko doing exactly what he wanted in the past.

“Giriko?” Justin’s voice is more hesitant than he intended, edged with the flutter of panic now lacing his heartrate. The relief that floods him at the shout of acknowledgment from the living room would be embarrassing if he weren’t so  _confused_. He barely pauses to pull his boots free, doesn’t take the time to take off even his outer robes before he makes his way down the remarkably undamaged hallway to the living room.

That’s intact, too, everything unbroken and even unmoved. The television is on, but the volume is so low Justin can barely hear more than a murmur of unintelligible sound and Giriko’s not watching the show at all, choosing instead to occupy himself in peeling the label off the bottle in his hand. There’s something more of a mess in here, but even so it only extends to a row of bottles on the coffee table and a layer of damp bits of paper across the hardwood floor, nothing unusual for the chainsaw.

Justin pauses in the doorway, trying very hard to process the  _normalcy_  of the scene in front of him, and while he’s still frowning at the paper on the floor Giriko tips his head up and grins. The light catches off the piercings in his ears and sparkles in his eyes until he looks  _happy_ , legitimately pleased as Justin’s never,  _ever_  seen him.

“Hi,” he offers without looking away. “You’re home.”

“I am.” Justin takes a step into the room, edging towards the table like utter devastation might descend around him at any moment. “You’re...cheerful.”

Giriko grunts. “Guess so.”

Justin looks away from the downright  _eerie_  smile on the chainsaw’s face, reaches out to touch the empty bottles arrayed on the table. “You’ve been drinking?”

“Yep.” The chipper tone in that one word is starting to suggest an explanation in Justin’s mind. Then his fingers land on a bottle heretofore tipped sideways, lost in the forest of sticky glass, and when he gets it upright the explanation comes into full clarity.

“You’re  _drunk_.”

There’s a growl that sounds refreshingly like Giriko. “Am not.”

“You are.” Justin’s looking at an empty bottle of rum; he doesn’t often drink it himself, but he’s fairly certain there were  _multiple_  inches of liquid left in it when he left this morning, to say nothing of the straggling row of empty bottles on the surface.

He glances back at Giriko. The chainsaw’s sprawled over the couch, limbs taking up so much space the furniture looks too small to hold him. That’s normal, in itself, but his wrist is falling at an awkward angle, and his eyes are not quite in focus, and his free hand is tugging at the loops of metal in his ears. Justin’s never seen Giriko  _fidget_  before.

“Oh my god.” There’s a laugh at the back of that, although Justin is aware he should probably be somewhat concerned regarding the sheer quantity of alcohol the other weapon has consumed. “You are  _very_  drunk.”

“Said I wasn’t,” Giriko says. He swings himself half-upright, drops his earrings in favor of grabbing at Justin’s hip. “C’mere, missed you.”

“You’re even less intelligible with this much alcohol in you,” Justin complains, but he drops the bottle back on the table and comes forward in response to the tug anyway. He’s grinning, more honestly amused than he can remember  _ever_  being and with none of the destructive itch his amusement usually comes with. Giriko’s fingers on his hip are steady but not painful; the chainsaw’s pushing up at his clothes with the hand still barely holding the half-empty bottle, leaning in to bump his forehead against Justin’s stomach before he’s even got the clothes out of the way.

“Shuddup,” he mumbles. “You wear too many clothes, what the fuck is this?”

“You say that every time,” Justin points out, but he collects a handful of cloth to pull off the top layer of his robes. He’s still got the cloth tangled around his head when Giriko’s head bumps against his stomach, fingers sliding up under his shirt to stroke warm against his hip. Giriko’s purring when Justin gets his top layer entirely off, eyes shut and mouth open so his breath comes warm and wet against the blond’s undershirt. The hand against his hip comes up, skates over Justin’s ribs and hitches up his shirt with it, and when Giriko licks against Justin’s stomach the priest shudders a laugh and lets himself drop down to the couch to settle his weight half atop the chainsaw. An arm hooks around his back, drags him down until he falls over Giriko; Justin’s laughing, can’t stop the half-shocked delight of the sound, but Giriko’s grinning too, lifting his head to press their lips together. He tastes like alcohol, bitter from his beer and faintly sweet from the tail end of the rum, but mostly he tastes like heat and damp and himself, and when his tongue drags over the roof of Justin’s mouth the priest’s laughter smooths over into the leading edge of a groan.

There are still fingers against his back, pushing his shirt up over his chest and around his shoulder, and Justin realizes the danger just as the bottle Giriko’s  _still_  holding tips too far and a trickle of liquid runs down his spine.

“Ah,  _stop_ ,” he says, sitting up fast. Giriko whines in protest but Justin ignores him, pries the bottle free of his questionable hold and sets it safely on the coffee table. “You’re pouring beer down my back.”

“You worry too damn much about being clean,” Giriko grumbles, reaching out to replace his hands where they had been.

“Because I don’t fancy the idea of a beer shower?” Justin asks, responding to the touch by coming back in over Giriko’s body in spite of the eyebrow he’s raising. “Yes, very unreasonable.”

“It  _is_.” Giriko is speaking very slowly, carefully pausing between each word with the careful consideration of the self-aware drunk. “Cause.” His fingers settle in against Justin’s hip, push the blond towards the back of the couch and twist him at the same time so he goes face-first. Giriko shifts, wiggles with a total lack of grace but effectively nonetheless until he’s on the outside of the cushions and has Justin pressed in against the inside edge. When he shifts down Justin starts to catch on, so he’s at least mentally prepared for the slow drag of Giriko’s tongue up over the sticky spill of beer over his shoulder. It doesn’t prevent his hiss of response, though, doesn’t offset the instinctive reaction of Justin’s body to the feel of Giriko’s tongue on him, so by the time Giriko pulls away Justin’s less sticky but significantly more flushed than he was previously.

Justin’s breathing harder than he wants to admit; it takes him a moment to pick up the conversation, another to steady his inhales so he can speak relatively clearly. “Because?”

“Hmm?” Giriko’s got his mouth up against his shoulder, now, just breathing open-mouthed over his skin while his other hand curls around Justin’s waist to splay his fingers over the blond’s stomach.

“Me not wanting to be covered in beer is unreasonable, you were saying?”

“Oh.” Another lick. Justin shivers, almost misses Giriko’s response. “Yeah. Cause reasons.”

“Reasons.” Justin is grinning, right up on the verge of laughter; only biting his lip is holding the response back. “That is a truly stellar argument.”

“Hey.” Giriko’s retort only has a hint of its usual fire, and his hand is sliding lower inexorably, if not very steadily. “I’m doin’ good. Didja see that rum?”

“I did,” Justin admits. Giriko’s fingers bump against the top of his pants.

“There was a lot left earlier.” Giriko slides up Justin’s spine, kisses the back of the blond’s neck. Justin shuts his eyes, shivers soundlessly. “‘M doing  _good_ , y’know.”

“You are,” Justin agrees. “Do you want some help with that button?”

Giriko growls. “ _No_.” His fingers catch at Justin’s hipbone, shove in forcibly past the top of the blond’s slacks. “Fuck if I care if your pants are on or not.” His fingertips skim over the blond’s length; it’s an awkward angle in spite of his statement, and Justin manages to laugh instead of groaning at the not-enough contact.

“Hang on, hang on,” he says, rocking back against Giriko’s body; the chainsaw growls, grinds up against his ass so Justin can feel that he’s just as hard as the blond is, but the movement demands all his inebriated attention and stalls the motion of his hand so Justin can reach down to fumble the button and zipper of his pants open. “There, okay, go on.” Giriko forces one hand between Justin’s waist and the couch cushions, grips at his hip and purrs into his neck so Justin’s shivering before the chainsaw has worked his wrist past the elastic of Justin’s boxers and closed his fingers around the blond’s length.

Giriko’s coordination is entirely gone, and judging from the way his mouth against Justin’s neck goes perfectly still as his hand starts moving, jerking the blond off is taking all of his deliberate concentration. But his grip is a lot tighter than it usually is, his self-awareness of his own strength fraying away, and the lack of rhythm is maybe better than a steadier pattern would be; at any rate, Justin’s breathing hard faster than he expects, rocking back to press against Giriko’s hips and thrust up into the chainsaw’s hold before he realizes what he’s doing. Giriko’s humming against the back of his neck, the fingers at his waist coming up higher to steady Justin via a hand pressed against his stomach.

“You’re ‘mazing,” the chainsaw mumbles. The movement of his mouth against Justin’s skin feels a little like a kiss; his strokes stutter almost to a stop, so Justin hisses in protest before Giriko remembers himself and starts again, harder and faster than he was to start. “Mm. I  _like_  you.”

Justin has to shut his eyes, laughs weakly in spite of the heat ebbing into his blood as a prelude to the wave of pleasure he can see on the horizon. “You get sweet when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not  _sweet_ ,” Giriko growls. The hand against Justin’s stomach digs in until the scrape of fingernails over his skin makes Justin gasp, the grip on his cock jerks fast and hard, and all he can manage is to choke on gasping moans while the chainsaw keeps talking, his mouth resting just under the blond’s ear. “I like you. ‘S not the same.” The edge of a laugh, underlining Justin’s awareness as it starts to splinter apart into just friction and heat. “You’re just real pretty when you --”

Justin’s vision goes. He cries out a wordless sound, something of encouragement and something that sounds almost like pain, and the last thing he hears before pleasure whites everything into a singularity of satisfaction is Giriko’s rumbling laugh.

The chainsaw’s licking his neck again when Justin shivers his way back to into his present context. His grip has loosened, but he’s tracing idle sticky patterns over the priest’s skin and Justin can’t even find it in him to protest, not in the face of the other’s unusual affection.

“How drunk are you?” he asks instead without turning.

“Not as drunk as you think I am,” Giriko retorts in utter denial of the facts at hand.

Justin twists, reaches up to fit his pinky finger through the loop of one of Giriko’s earrings. The chainsaw rumbles in what sounds like appreciation, angles his head towards the touch even before Justin tugs gently on the piercing.

“You’re  _exactly_  as drunk as I think you are,” he says, and Giriko doesn’t protest that at all. When Justin angles his head to look at the chainsaw the other’s eyes are shut, his usual frown or sneer or glare relaxed into oddly human pleasure. “I mean mostly whether you want reciprocation.”

Giriko grins without opening his eyes, rocks forward to press himself against Justin’s hip. “You trying to dodge your turn?”

“I’m questioning whether you’re  _capable_  of letting me reciprocate,” Justin clarifies.

Even with the booze in his system, that’s enough to earn a frown, the chainsaw opening his eyes so he can properly glare. “Look, kid, I’ve got  _centuries_  of experience jerking off drunk.”

“Yes,” Justin smiles. When he twists to fully face Giriko the chainsaw rocks forward to press in against him, hissing in wordless irritation. “I’m sure you do.” His hands are smaller than Giriko’s, and the chainsaw’s jeans are looser than the blond’s pants, and the difficult angle of fitting his hand past the waistband is well worth it for the shock that washes over Giriko’s face when Justin’s fingers brush over him, sudden pleasure wiping out the anger settling into his features.

“You’ll have to tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” Justin purrs, although he doesn’t need the reassurance. He can hear the way the chainsaw’s breathing is speeding up, can feel the larger man rock up into his touch when he slides his thumb sideways and up. Giriko’s eyes have fallen shut again; when Justin leans in to bump his nose against the band of metal set into the chainsaw’s nose, Giriko grins and huffs a laugh of pleasure but doesn’t speak, just curls his fingers against Justin’s hip and slides his free hand slow and appreciative over the blond’s chest.

It does take longer than Justin expects, especially from how fast Giriko goes to groaning and rocking up into the blond’s strokes, but the chainsaw hits what sure  _looks_  like the edge and then hovers there so long Justin ends up working his jeans open just for the improved angle for the movement of his hand. But the fingers at the blond’s hip are sliding gently over his skin, and Giriko’s smiling faintly, probably unintentionally, and Justin’s smiling too without realizing it just watching him. The only time Giriko’s hold goes into painful is just before he comes; it’s actually the dig of fingers against his skin that tips Justin off, that pushes his movements faster. Even then the moment draws breathlessly long, until Justin groans, “ _Fuck_  Giriko,” and Giriko jerks and groans and comes, like Justin’s dragging it out of him by force.

The chainsaw tips in after, his whole body doubly-heavy with alcohol and post-coital exhaustion together, and Justin’s pretty sure he’d pass out on top of him except that the blond resists, shoves at his shoulder and says, “ _No_ , no, I want a shower and you should be in bed.” Giriko groans in protest but rolls away, and Justin doesn’t think of the edge of the couch until the chainsaw drops entirely off it with a grunt of surprise, and he  _really_  doesn’t think of the coffee table and the half-full beer on its edge until one of the chainsaw’s flailing legs hits it and the whole thing goes over in the slow-motion fall of a truly spectacular mess. For a moment they both just stare at the toppled bottles, the slowly spilling liquid; then Giriko grins, and reaches out for the half-full bottle, lifts it upright and brings it to his lips, tips his head back and swallows the last of it in one fluid motion.

There’s really nothing Justin can do, after that, but laugh.


End file.
